


Time After Time

by mimarie



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimarie/pseuds/mimarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em> It was just déjà vu. It happened. They were living on a time-ship, of course it happened.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

> **spoilers:** _Boom Town_ (DW S1:11) and _Utopia_ (DW S3:11). Knowledge of Torchwood would be an advantage.  
>  **beta:**[](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/profile)[ **aeshna_uk**](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/) and [](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/profile)[**jwaneeta**](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/)   
> **disclaimer:** I own nothing but the happy space between my ears

When he plucked her screaming from the sky, she didn't remember him.  
She didn't remember him in the uniform; she just blushed as his nanogenes mended her skin, flirting as they danced in the light of Big Ben and around the Doctor's pride.  
He was a distraction. He was handsome and she trusted him to come back - because he would, she knew it, though she didn't know how.  
She didn't remember him on Woman Wept, or playing poker for ten days straight in the doldrums of a temporal storm; in the craggy recess of a desert moon with an infestation of something she refused to call crabs because it made him snigger, or while androids re-enacted scenes from the Old West around them and the Doctor wore a silver star like he'd done it all his life.  
He was fun - and funny. He could be serious at inappropriate moments. He cheated at cards and stole kisses from the bar staff. He vanished for three hours in the middle of a hand and came back with free tickets to the local freak show, love-bites on his stomach, bum and thighs (she knew because he showed her), and a sore back.  
She didn't remember him while she was rubbing it better, although she did have a twinge when he tried to kiss her. She blamed it on guilt and told him _'no,_ ' then made an excuse about passports when they stopped to refuel.  
She laughed at his stories, even when he insisted they were true, but she didn't remember him in Cardiff, either.  
When she came back in tears he offered her hugs without censure or forgiveness. He didn't call Mickey 'Ricky' even once - and his smile made her remember how good it felt to dream of things she'd never have.  
And besides, he was the only person she could imagine asking for _that_ and it being okay. Not to mention it being pretty much guaranteed he'd say yes.  
She didn't remember him when she found the words, or when she locked the door, or when she kissed him - although she was a bit distracted by then.  
He was warm and willing; hard and eager and gentle. Sitting back amongst the pillows she'd piled up to cry on, he was already comfortably mussed as he stopped her mid-button to ask, ' _are you sure?_ ' and when she insisted, he helped her forget.  
And when he'd taken what she needed, giving back what she offered with no more or less thought than he gave to all his hugs and innuendoes, she let him tell her she was beautiful, and that any man - any _one_ \- would have to be a fool to let her go, without ever imagining he was talking about himself. She took the comfort he offered, and she still didn't remember him.  
That was later.  
Later, when she opened her eyes to find him sleeping; dim light coloured crimson on bare skin, his cheek on her pillow, his arm round her loosely, not holding on, just letting be.  
It was just déjà vu. It happened. They were living on a time-ship, of course it happened.  
He wasn't the same though. He looked the same - she could see that. He was just the same and yet so very different.  
"I know you. I _knew_ you -"  
His eyes opened; the smile ready before recognition blinked on. That was different. She knew it. Remembered a different bed, a look that made her feel warm and hot at once. He blinked again, focussing.  
"I should hope so. Either that or I just had the _best_ dream. You were in it. Want me to tell you about it?"  
That was the right smile; just the same and effortlessly wrong at once.  
"No. I mean... I remember you - _this_. I didn't remember and now I do. I was crying, and you were there. I'd forgotten."  
"I thought I was the one with the hole in my head?"  
"Maybe it hasn't happened yet."  
He shrugged. Didn't answer - didn't need to.  
"It doesn't matter." A pause, she shrugged back. "Just - say something."  
"Like what?"  
"Something you'll remember. Anything. It doesn't matter what - just so long as you'll remember."  
Serious then. Looking thoughtful, he rolled up on one elbow.  
"Can I stay the night?"  
She smiled up at him, pulling him down.  
"I knew you were going to say that."  
"Anything else?"  
"Ask me in the morning."

~

  
She was younger than he remembered. Not much - but he'd aged a lot more. It didn't show, though, and she didn't ask.  
She was crying. Her mother was away, the boyfriend she'd lose in Cardiff wasn't hers yet, the ex- still a raw place: too sore to smooth over; too angry to ignore.  
She was hurt and alone, and he was there. He'd only had to wait three days, but he was right on time.  
It was still wrong.  
But she knew what she wanted and if he happened to be in the right place when she went looking...  
He knew it didn't make it right, of course it didn't - what could? But it had to be him - and if not, then who?  
It was no excuse.  
She was warm and soft and so young: no thought of stars beyond the magazines she pushed off the bed in her haste to get him on it; no ambition past reclaiming as much pride and self-confidence as a handsome face and willing body could provide.  
Later, when she opened her eyes to find him watching her, she seemed pleased just see him still there. She told him she'd never forget him, and he rolled up onto his elbow, bare skin stained crimson in the curtain-shrouded streetlight.  
"Can I ask you something, Rose?"  
"Anything." She grinned, biting the tip of her tongue "- within reason."  
"Can I stay the night?"  
She smiled up at him, pulling him back down.  
"I'll tell you in the morning."

~

  
He made tea when she woke, while she buttered the toast; two sugars for her, a little something extra then the top of the milk. And as pale pink lipstick covered the faint, whitish residue on the rim of her mug, he remembered her remembering and wished again that he could have known.  



End file.
